Thedas total war
by Setrus
Summary: Thedas history is rife with war, great leaders and generals leading massive armies to battle whatever foe they have at that time. Some become legends, their stories recounted throughout the ages, most don't though, their names forgotten and their deeds lost in the annals of history...
1. Chapter 1

**Year 85, the Storm age**

William Stoneshield was a man of duty.

His father had taught him from an early age that blood can be washed away and words forgiven, but a shirked duty to kin and friend would leave a shame that would never wash away. As such, when his father had been wounded by a boar, his wound festering, he had asked the Chantry for help. The old woman that had come had the means to heal his father. However the cost was too great for their small family, but a price must be paid if the man was to be saved, for the work of a sacred priest does not come cheap.

So William had forsaken his birthright, his life, his friends. All had had been left behind in Ferelden as he went back to the Chantry with the Priestess, an initiate of the order.

He didn't know if his father was alive now, twelve years later, nor what had happened to his mother or sisters.

He was too busy doing his duty.

As an initiate, and then a sworn brother, of the Templar order, he had caught the eyes of his superiors for his diligent service, his care for his fellow warriors and his respect for those above his station.

He had swiftly risen in the ranks and was now, much to the chagrin of his Orlesian second in command, Knight-Captain of the expedition behind him.

One thing his father had never taught him of duty, something which he'd learned himself – first when he'd left with the priest so many years ago, and then many times more in his service of the order – was that duty might be important, but it was not always pretty, nor always right.

As such, it was with a certain sense of dread that he watched the solitary rider approach.

Next to him, Ser Farhan sat on his own charger, his brown eyes coldly watching their opponent draw near, though noticing his commander's stare, he offered the curtest of nods. The two Templars couldn't be less alike. Where Farhan was short and had his black hair cropped short, William had long blond hair and rose high atop his destrier. Where Farhan's dark eyes conveyed his every emotion, William's blue eyes were dim and sealed to the world. Where Farhan came from a prestigious line of Orlesian chevaliers, William had been the miller's son in a small village of Ferelden. Where Farhan was devoutly dedicated to the Chantry, William viewed the required prayers as his duty and little else.

William knew the man despised his superior, and knew his next order would be ill-received, but he also knew it would look bad for him to meet the man ahead with another sword next to him. "Ser Farhan, please return to the van, I will meet this man alone."

Farhan's eyes instantly lit up in anger as he shot his commander a glare. "Why? It's clear we have nothing to say to him, our orders are clear."

"They are." William agreed with a solemn nod, not taking his eyes of the other rider. "However, we do not have to be disrespectful, go back."

"There is nothing he can say that will stop us from doing this..." Farhan hissed the words, making his horse move closer to William's, eyes full of suspicion. _So suspicious of a Ferelden, are we_? _We are supposed to forget our old ties when we enter the Chantry's service, so we swear_. William was more than aware that that was just a dream though. The idea of some priest thinking men and women entering the service weren't flesh and blood any more, something that was far from the truth.

William, finally tearing his gaze off his approaching foe, looked over to Farhan, meeting anger and suspicion with a cold wall of indifference. "I'm aware, or do you question my ability to lead, Knight-Lieutenant."

Jealousy glowed in Farhan's eyes... and then he turned his head away with a snort. "Of course not, Captain, I'll go back." A final resentful glance, and he rode back towards the waiting army.

_That man will be the death of me. No wonder the Knight-Commander sent him with me_. Sighing, William looked back to what he was facing.

Rivain was a dreary country. Recently freed from the Qunari, it had barely begun to heal the wounds of the war liberating it... and the land itself had been poor even before that anyway. The one thing it had was forests, lots of forests, not to mention swamps and bogs that stunk when it got warm, and in Rivain it was _always_ warm.

Personally, William would have been happy leaving the country to the Rivaini.

Yet duty wouldn't listen, wouldn't heed him... or perhaps that was the Divine herself.

So now he sat there, between his own host of Templars and what looked like a small army of Rivaini, wondering where things had gone wrong.

It wasn't surprising that many Rivaini had come to worship the Qun, they had been the Qunari's subjects for nearly a full age, and even _before_ then they had been too flexible when it came to religion. The Divine did _not_ accept people of the Chantry living side by side with people worshipping spirits and trees, nor those hiding apostates and even viewing them as some kind of holy people... that stunk too much of the Tevinters for her taste.

So when the normal process of converting people had failed or moved too slow for the Divine's liking, conversion now happened at the point of a sword.

_I'm sure those converts are diligent at their prayers_. William glumly thought. _Praying for our deaths, most likely_. He had already led several converting forces, though it struck him more like raids on an already beaten people. How many houses could you set aflame, how many people could you force to forswear their gods and how many that refused could you kill before the work of the Maker rather seemed like the command of some cruel bitch with a chip on her shoulder?

Yet William had sworn an oath, his duty was to the Chantry, and he would die for it if need be.

Two hundred feet to each side of him, the forest lay thick, large trees that had probably seen ages come and go growing tall, though their leaves were thin and long, allowing light to come down to a thick under-brush, making the forests seem like solid walls of green, rather than a living thing. William felt uneasy around so much forest, but there was nothing there according to his scouts, and even if there was, his men still had enough space to manoeuvre to face any threat. In fact, William figured the many mounted Rivaini would have more of a problem, given that the forest was essentially funnelling them towards two thousand heavily armoured Templars.

The man approaching did not look worried however.

He was a thin man with his dark Rivaini skin weathered from an unrelenting sun and age, a shortly cropped beard of brown with streaks of grey concealing most of his mouth. Unlike William's destrier, the man rode an unbarded horse. His armour was a simple suit of chainmail that could have belonged to a soldier in most nations, dull under the sun compared to William's shining suit of partial plate. William held his great helm under his arm, his opponent wore a sharply pointed piece of metal with a nasal guard and some chain protecting his neck. William's sword was a simple thing, his opponents' shone of golden inlays and held a crimson ruby at the pommel...yet he also carried a small quiver of javelins strapped to the right side of his saddle. William's shield bore the simple device of Andraste's flaming sword, his opposite a smaller shield painted to depict several black flowers in bloom.

The man reined in his horse, stopping his approach a few feet away from William, his body still as he eyed the younger man before him with eyes black as pitch under his nasal helm.

Silence.

Shifting in his saddle, William made the first move. "In the name of Andraste, why do you and your people bar my path, Ser?"

"You do not wish to introduce yourself first?" The older man replied, his voice dry in the air around them; in his black eyes, there was seemingly no life. "It is customary for the leaders of two rival armies to introduce themselves, is it not?"

"Are we enemies then?" William tried, offering a pale smile. "I have no quarrel with you Ser, have your men move aside, and my own will not trouble you."

"So you can ride to the village ahead and burn it? Put those still remaining there to the sword if they do not swear their lives to your Andraste?" The man sharply retorted, though his eyes remained cool and unblinking. "Never."

"That village has denied the existence of the Maker and his bride, follow heretical creeds and harbour apostates." William returned, smile fading. "And now, so have _you_, Ser." He paused, letting the words sink in even as he reluctantly accepted what would have to happen. "I am Ser William Stoneshield, and you?"

"Dusken of the Lilies." The Rivaini grunted. "I have heard of you. You're good at killing unarmed peasants."

"I'm good at following my _duty_, Ser Dusken. As for you, I've never heard of you." William snorted, annoyed. Duty wasn't pretty, it wasn't always right, but it was all he had. "Now, have your forces put down their arms, you are outnumbered." In Dusken's black eyes, there was a twinkle of amusement at William's words. "If you surrender now, they will be spared, do what's right for them."

"I think... _not_." The dark-skinned man growled, amusement fading. "You have not heard of me because I was fighting the Qunari while you were still at your mother's teat, deep in areas you Templars never reached, or did you think you single-handedly liberated Rivain?" A snort escaped the older man. "Turn back now, boy, or the blood of your Templars will be on _your_ hands, I'm here defending my people, any battle that happens here will be _your_ doing."

"You think to scare me." William coldly replied, sweat running down his back from the heat of the blazing sun. He held his foe's gaze though, as unblinking as the old man. "Unfortunately for you, I don't shirk from my duty." Grabbing his helmet with both hands, he raised it and put it down over his head, watching his foe through its slits. "We're done here."

Without another word, he turned his horse and let his horse slowly walk back to his own lines, his spine itching as his mind conjured up the image of one of that noble's javelins punching into his back.

Yet no javelin came, and soon he was back among his troops, turning to join Ser Farhan and his mounted Templars. "It'll be a battle."

Around him, men and women stiffened in their saddles at the four words, horses snorting as they sensed their masters' anxiety. Farhan sounded smug, however. "Knew it, let them come, we'll break them in the first charge."

"Possibly." William admitted, though the confidence of his foe had somewhat rattled him, and he found himself starring across the field as he held out his hand. "Spyglass, please."

The tube of copper with finely polished lenses was a surface dwarf's invention and had gained in popularity. Though only generals of more wealthy nations could afford them, and of course the Chantry, that gladly took one instead of the annual tribute of a dwarven artist capable of making one. Through it, William could now see how Farhan rejoined his troops, as well as their disposition.

Though numerous, his riders were not _close_ to the numbers of his Templars, barely outnumbering the three hundred mounted ones as it was. And though the warriors closest to Dusken wore chainmail like him, the rest wore simple leather armour, if even that. Mostly it was a patchwork of men and women of various ages in simple clothes and riding horses that looked like they hadn't had a decent meal in years. _What's your game_...? Worried, William tried to spot any foes in the woods, but as far as he could see, his scouts were correct, no foe was to be seen.

There was no answer to William's question. Only silence, the odd cough and clatter of equipment.

The Rivaini, loosely formed from one forest to the other, simply waited.

_Any battle that happens here will be my doing, eh_? William sighed. "Keep the archers up front, spearmen behind, sound the advance."

His standard bearer waved the flaming sword of Andraste over his head, his horn-blower gave a long wailing note.

With the sound of armoured feet marching across the ground, the Chantry force advanced.

As he urged his horse on, Farhan and his cavalry following him, William watched the enemy ahead... and frowned at the lack of movement from the Rivaini riders as the steel fist of the Chantry descended upon them.

Then, when they were nearly in bow-shot, there was a mighty cry from the Rivaini, and they set off in a gallop.

"Halt advance! Spearmen ready to receive the charge! Archers, loose at will!" William reined in his horse even as his horn-blower called the halt, the rest of his orders being transmitted through a series of waves of his banner, though given what was happening, he hardly thought it would be necessary, his officers were no fools.

Still, it took time to halt an army, and by the time his archers were readying their arrows, the Rivaini riders were closing the distance with alarming speed. Behind the Templar archers, William's spearmen were ready to let the archers through while denying any Rivaini passage, no charge like the one facing them would break them.

But it didn't come.

Instead the Rivaini let loose a fusillade of javelins as they came within range, then another as they wheeled about to retreat. The Templar archers were heavily armoured compared to most nation's, yet the javelins were fearsome projectiles that punched through plate and chain far too easily, felling an alarming number of soldiers in a single volley.

Shaken by their sudden losses, the Templar archers were late to reply, and only got away a single volley before the Rivaini were once more out of range. Though even so, several horses tumbled to the ground or rode on riderless, the poorly armoured riders easily felled by any arrow that might catch their target.

Wheeling about, the Rivaini once more turned to face the Templars... and stopped.

First blood had been drawn.

Next to him, Farhan was muttering some curse, but William ignored the blasphemy, his eyes narrowing at his foe as he recalled the man's words. _Put those still remaining to the sword_... He blinked. _Dusken is intending to empty the village_. For a moment, William was conflicted, he did not enjoy killing simple people for their beliefs, no matter _how_ strange or wrong they might seem... but as always, duty won out. "They intend to stall us, that's why they're here."

"Then let's charge them!" Farhan growled, anger flashing in his eyes. "I'll break them!"

"And have them draw you into Maker knows where? No." William had not been made Knight-Captain without proper studies in the art of war. _Though I still don't know how to make proper flour_... "Spearmen up front, shields up, archers behind them to support. Form a column with the rest of the troops, we'll push them as hard as we can."

A few of his men rode out to give the orders, and ten minutes later the force was formed up, a giant lance aimed at the soft-looking mass opposing them.

Again, they advanced.

Again, the Rivaini came at them... only to halt just out of range of the Templar's bows as the Chantry forces came to a halt.

"We continue the advance, do _not_ let their threat stop you! Archers only to shoot when they have a shot!" William ordered.

And the Templars advanced, simply pushing their foes forward with the threat of their presence.

Then, the battlefield widened, the distance between the two forests' growing... and the Rivaini took advantage. Like water, they flowed along the flanks of the Templars, slowing their advance to a crawl as they had to turn to and fro to ready shields and to guard their bowmen, bowmen that hardly got a shot off as the Rivaini remained aloof to engage.

Then, the Rivaini struck the rearguard.

Tired and somewhat bored where he rode, William's first warning of the sudden attack was when his Standard bearer pushed his horse to the right, making a javelin whirl through their air where his head had been a moment before. Turning in his saddle, William's eyes widened at the sight of the Rivaini horde coming in from behind, wild-eyed riders galloping forward with lathered horses, javelins flying from their hands.

Several dozen Templar knights fell, tumbling from their saddles as they were pierced by the large missiles. Yet more fell of dying horses, their shields raised to deflect additional strikes. Then the Rivaini were breaking off, a few over-zealous fools moving close to swing with crude hatchets, only to be cut down by enraged Templars while the rest hurried away.

"Commander, we must act now!" Farhan's eyes were alight with anger, but also worry, the need to do _something_.

And this time, William judged him to be right. "Right, you lead the horses, drive these Rivaini away from the column!" He saw the eager glint in Farhan's eyes and grimaced, glad for his helmet. "_Don't_ pursue heedlessly, just keep them from using those javelins."

"Of course." A bow, and Farhan was off, the sound of the knights following him like rolling thunder.

Across rolling plains they continued, the Templar riders at the front keeping the Rivaini on the back foot by faking charges and making it impossible for the Rivaini to properly face them and loose unless they wished to risk close combat.

Which they, half an hour later, did.

With a great cry, the Rivaini riders surged forward, javelins arching through the air.

Yet this time the Templar riders had their shields raised and flanks secured and barely received a casualty as they themselves roared in defiance and charged.

_Good_! Clenching his fist tight, William watched Farhan's riders smash aside dozens of enemy riders as if they were barely there, hatchets nothing but scrapping plate as flashing swords cut into flesh and bone. Within moments, Dusken's riders were routing. _Now hold back, we don't need to_... _hold back_! Gritting his teeth, William stared at Farhan waving his horses into pursuit, killing a few more Rivaini while the rest easily outpaced the heavier cavalry of the Templars. "Signal them to hold!" William called out to his horn-blower, the two short notes ringing out before he'd even finished the sentence.

Yet Farhan continued.

Further ahead, William could just about spot how the Rivaini routers were splitting in two, leaving the ground in the centre be... and no wonder, since – as if out of thin air – hundreds of lightly armoured men and women appeared in the tall grass, bows notched and drawn. _Stop now_! The arrows took flight, raining down among the knights from high as others came flying nearly horizontally... yet for all that, there were few casualties among the heavily armoured knights that simply charged on, ready to plough aside the poor fools trying to harm them with their pinpricks.

Then the fools raised their spears.

"Double pace! Get us over there!" William gave the order, though he was unsure if it would be in time.

As the main body of Templars surged forward, their mounted men crashed into the archers ahead that had picked up their spears, and though their skill and armour meant these Templars slaughtered five archers for every one of them that fell, their advance faltered, the steel fist of their charge surrounded on three sides by a horde of men and women in leather thrusting at them with crude spears.

And then the Rivaini riders turned back, their horses surrounding the combat, javelins thrown from close range pitching rider after rider off his saddle as the knights, unable to get out of the horde of infantry, were killed at leisure.

_They're dead_. Growling, angry, William gave the order. "Archers, loose arrows into that mob."

A moment of hesitation, and arrows began to rain over the heads of the still advancing Templar infantry, arrows striking down upon the frenzied combat before them.

Men and women died, horses fell... and then the Rivaini were fleeing, leaving the tired Templars to come to a stop as their archers continued to rain death on the fleeing Rivaini.

Behind the routers, a carpet of dead Rivaini and horses lay. Yet among them, every single remaining Templar rider also lay, a brutal exchange of blood from which the Rivaini probably thought they'd come out on top from. _And they're probably right_...

With the opposition now melted away and every eye on him, William grimly gave his next order. "Reform ranks, we press on." Watching a torn banner depicting the holy flame of Andraste flutter in the wind among the piles of bodies, he gripped the reins of his horse tighter, voice a low growl. "Today, this Dusken dies."

Two hours later, they reached the village.

Anger churning in his gut, William watched his enemy's ranks through the spyglass. They had come out of their village, only a few token men upon the palisade while a brown mass stood at the base of the hill the village stood upon.

At the forefront, a disorganized mob of men and women in dirty clothing or leather armour stood, small shields in their left hand as their right held Javelins. Behind them, the line was more orderly, lines of warriors in leather carrying spears and shields or even spears in both hands that closely resembled those the Qunari favoured. A single spot of grey was in that line, men in chainmail wearing great helms, though seemingly knights given the devices on their shields, these men too carried spears. Near them, three women in black cloaks stood, staves raised. Apostates.

At the back, what remained of the Rivaini cavalry remained, and there too, William spotted a spot of grey. Focusing his spyglass, he saw Dusken, the black eyes under his helmet glowing with grim amusement as he raised his sword to his lips, seemingly saluting William.

_Right, at least today I'll enjoy my duty_.

"Swords at front! Greatswords close behind! Archers to skirmish ahead! Spears advance along the flanks!" William roared the order, tired of this pointless battle, tired of the death that had been inflicted and the death that would come. _Let's end this_!

To the low rumbling beat of drums, the Templars slowly moved forward.

With a slight advantage in elevation, the first arrows loosed came from the spent Rivaini archers from before. But the Templars simply brushed those shots aside as they closed within range before grinding to a halt, daring their foe to advance as they began loosing arrows at them.

The Rivaini stayed still though, Dusken glaring down at William as his men stirred in fear.

And then began to die.

"Focus on the javeliners! I want them swept away!" William had had enough of those armour-piercing weapons, though not the Qunari's they were still too dangerous to be allowed to stay on the battlefield against his Templars. _Should have brought some of those pilgrims that wanted to come, though I'm still against the idea of using what Farhan called 'fodder' in battle_... _arrows_ _will_ _make_ _do_.

And they did. For every Rivaini that managed to block an arrow with their small shield, another fell. Though ducking and dodging as best they could, many of the Templars' targets fell with half a dozen arrows in them, and those arrows not striking them flew on towards the main Rivaini lines, knocking the odd lightly armoured soldier to the ground with a blood-curdling scream.

The Rivaini witches returned arrows with fire. Though there were only three of them, their fireballs looked impressive as they hurtled forward... and failed miserably to make an impact as the trained Templars shrugged off the strikes of mages not near as good as those of the circle assailed them.

Then two died, arrows quavering in their chests as the last shrieked and gave flight.

Driving his horse and his small bodyguard up until they reached the back of his main line, William glared at the Rivaini forces ahead as he gave his order. "Archers to the rear, swords forward, kill them all!"

The remaining Rivaini carrying javelins let loose, but with raised shields, William's Templars advanced, weathering the storm as they closed in. The Rivaini skirmishers began to fall back... and the Templars carrying the terrifying greatswords usually used on Circle mages failing their trials gave voice to a booming roar and surged past their shield-armed brothers before the later could charge in to join them.

With a great crash, spear met greatsword and shield locked with shield as steel slashed aside thrusting spears to get to those hiding behind them.

The Templars gained a foot, and then another, blood pooling in the ground as steel hacked into flimsily armoured flesh, driving the defenders towards the palisade.

It was slowly turning into a slaughter.

Sighing, his lust for blood gone the moment the implication of his own order began to sink in, William eyed Dusken, watching the impassive warrior just sit there, though his bodyguards were now glancing left and right, at the flanks. Sighing, William made the order duty demanded. _He can't be allowed to escape, none of them are_. "Spears to the flank, link up with the palisade and charge, close them in."

Like pieces on a chessboard, the Templar spearmen moved into position, sealing the Rivaini fate as William with a singular focus closed the trap on Dusken and his troops.

A singular focus that was blindsided.

The moment the spearmen began to press in at their cornered foes, a great horn cried out from deep within the Rivaini ranks. William raised his spyglass to his eye, and saw Dusken himself blowing into the horn._ Is he calling for surrender_? _Then why are his soldiers still fightin_-

Darkness.

Then light, pain.

Groaning, William found himself face first in the mud, his helmet gone and body strangely heavy as a tingling sensation centered between his shoulder blades kept him as firmly to the ground as a horse sitting on him would have.

He looked up.

And blinked in horror.

Around him, his bodyguards lay slaughtered, horses and men alike riddled with javelins, all having struck them in the back. _So that's what it is_...

Further off, his archers had scattered, men and women dressed in little but straps of leather hunting after them with slashing axes and small shields, mercilessly killing any they caught. _Where did they_..._come_ _from_? _The_... _forest_? _But I_... _Maker, I didn't scout that far ahead_... _I didn't_... _I was angry and_... _Maker, forgive me_...

Arrows were thumping into the back of his troops still engaged with the Rivaini soldiers. Arrows, javelins and even stones hurled by men carrying slings were slaying his soldiers by the score as they were unable to turn to face the new menace. Then, roaring, the men and women with their cruel axes came running back, smashing into the Templars from behind as William duly noticed how they had tattooed their bodies until they looked like nothing but moving trees. _Why would you_... _do that_? He saw his men break.

Then darkness took him.

Before light once more entered his eyes, his whole body aflame with agony as he found himself on his back, his blood pooling around him. Dusken was looking down at him, his fine sword in hand, unbloodied. His voice, as if from a great distance, reached William's ears as his black eyes held the Templar's dimming gaze. "I told you to turn back." His voice was almost... sad. "Now more blood will be shed before there can be peace. Pointless boy, absolutely pointless..."

"I..." William coughed, the taste of metal in his mouth. "...I had to do...my..." He gasped, his body going rigid with pain. "...duty."

"So did I boy." Dusken raised his blade with a sigh. "So did I."

The blade fell.

8

8

8

_Thanks to Abydos Jackson for putting up with my silly ideas._


	2. Chapter 2

Year 97. Blessed age

The Orlesian sat perfectly still on his horse, chin held high, looking down at the man approaching him, which was quite the feat since the Ferelden man towered a full foot over him with his six and a half foot of muscles. Even with the Ferelden's mount being smaller, the man was towering over the Orlesian even before the slight incline of the slope he was coming down from was taken into account.

Raymond de Subelin was not impressed, however. As a noble that would taken up the sword and shield of the Chevaliers if not for his size, he was perhaps small of stature, but a giant in court and mind. He was, thanks to King Meghren, now a Count of Ferelden, a _highly_ undeveloped vassal kingdom of Orlais, but that did _not_ mean he'd forgotten how to properly attire himself. His white suit of plate armour was enamelled with gold, his blond moustache was carefully trimmed and oiled. Though both it and his short blond hair was concealed by the mask of gold and silver upon his face – they might be banned from court due to Ferelden assassins, but Raymond was not about to stop being civilized – that concealed all but his calm blue eyes, their gaze properly haughty and disinterested as they regarded the approaching oaf.

While the Ferelden man now reining in his horse was also dressed in plate armour, it was a dull thing of battered steel bereft of any beautifications. While tall, he sat hunched in his horse like a common brute, wide shoulders held close to a _mask-less_ face covered with age-lines and scars. His hair and beard, both far too long to be proper, not to mention scraggly from a lack of care, shifted in the breeze, making him look like a ragged banner. _As close to a savage as one could get without hunting animals with your bare hands_...

Subelin kept his gaze perfectly still, not about to reveal his impression of the man, for while the other man was a filthy barbarian, he was still a noble, and certain protocols had to be observed.

The other man had no such qualms though, squinting at Raymond with obvious distaste as he growled, his speech as guttural and simple as his people. "I am Bann Harrold Garrain, say your words swiftly so we may part, there is nothing to discuss."

_Bann_..._what odd titles these Ferelden give themselves, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by what dog-worshippers do, though_. Under his mask, it was warm under the blazing sun, but Raymond easily ignored that as he inclined his head ever so slightly, as a noble would do to one of lesser rank...not that he thought the Fereldian would pick up on that. "Agreed, Ser, yet they must be said."

The Fereldian didn't even reply, he simply crossed his arms over his chest like a simple dock-worker, grunting non-committally.

Holding back a sigh, Raymond continued. "I'm Raymond De Subelin, servant of King Meghren-"

"King my hairy arse." Harrold rudely interrupted, turned his head and spat.

Shuddering in revulsion, Raymond none the less continued. "Who has ordered me to deal with this petty rebellion." He held his tongue for a moment, letting his gaze travel past the Bann and over to his men in the distance. _Petty, yes, but a match for what I've been given_..._a lesser man would not have been up for the task_. "Your queen is dead, your cause lost, this resistance of yours is pointless."

"Aye, she died, assassinated by turn-cloaks and cowardly Orlesians with daggers in the night." Again, Harrold spat, and this time all Raymond could do was to conceal his shudder. _No better than their dogs_... "I'm tired of bowing to your master, runt, there is just so much dishonour a man can take before he must act." Harrold grimaced, looking at Subelin. "Well...for _most_ of us." Ignoring the crude barb, Raymond coolly regarded the other man. "Now, say what you have to say, you didn't run up the white flag for nothing. What offer does your _benevolent_ King offer?"

Under his mask, Raymond's lips twitched. He didn't much care for Meghren either, but outright _mocking_ a fellow noble was simply _wrong_. "These are our terms. Surrender, and you and your soldiers will be put to the sword." Harrold barked out a laugh, making Raymond sigh under his mask. Neither he nor Severan – king Meghren's right hand – had approved of actually _saying_ that...but Meghren had been in one of his moods, and Raymond didn't dare go against his wishes with two of the man's Chevaliers flanking him.

Harrold was looking at him as if he was telling a joke.

"Resist, however, and once I'm done here we'll go to your castle, burn it to the ground and put your entire family to the blade as well." They'd do that even if he surrendered, but _that_ part Severan had managed to convince Meghren that lying about would be more efficient.

In front of Raymond, the Ferelden's eyes smouldered with rage_. I do believe this deal will be refuted_...

"Not only will your family die, but we will burn down every village of yours and put the inhabitants to the sword...unless you surrender." That part was honest enough, the kingdom had lost enough farmers as it stood, and amnesty could be extended to those who'd remained at home, barely aware their lord was off fighting. If he didn't surrender, however...Meghren wasn't known as 'the cruel' for nothing.

Silence, Harrold glowering at him.

_Yes, he'll refuse, how tiresome_.

"Is that it? You've said your piece?" The man grunted, not waiting for Raymond's reply. "Then by Andraste and the Maker, I swear that I won't yield a single inch of ground. I swear that I'll hammer your army to dust and that I myself will take your head off." The man spat for the third time, making Raymond grimace even as he mentally rolled his eyes at the threat.

"Very well, have it your way." Again, Raymond looked past the Bann, looking at his assembled army, so far up on their slope. "Will you bring your army down to fight then? I will pull my own forces back to give us room for a proper battle."

Harrold laughed at his face. "That's a good one!" Shaking his head, making his scraggly beard resemble a banner even more so, the man grinned at Raymond. "No, you want to destroy this '_petty_' rebellion and put me and my troops to the sword, then you'd better march your dainty arse up that hill and try to do so."

Raymond coolly regarded the Bann, irritated. "We are evenly matched in numbers and you hide your men atop a hill? Not very chivalrous, Ser."

"An Orlesian speaking of chivalry is like a rat speaking of flying." Harrold snorted. "No, you come and take your victory, if you think you have the balls."

"Very well, have it your way." A small sniff, and Raymond turned his horse.

"Wait!" Turning his head, Raymond watched the Bann through the slits of his mask. "Take that bloody thing off so I can see your face, that way I can look for it on the battlefield." The man was glaring at Raymond, fingering his sword.

Raymond shook his head. "Oh you won't find it there, I assure you." With that, he turned back and resumed his ride back to his own men.

In contrast to the brown and grey blotch that Harrold Garrain's army made atop their hill, like a stain of mud on a green coat, the Orlesian army shone of silver in the sunlight, especially the finer ranks. Even their common soldiers looked fine in their red and white surcoats, though the town militia Raymond had dragged out of Gwaren was an ugly stain on an otherwise beautiful force. _Not to worry though, that will soon be rectified_.

Wheeling his horse around once past the low palisade erected around their camp, Raymond stretched out his hand, not even looking at the finely shaped elf – that by now had learnt his gestures to the point that she would put any other servant to shame – as she handed him his spyglass before retreating to a proper distance. Riding up next to him, a man already wearing his silver-enamelled helmet, appeared. "Ser Renauld, how fare you today?" Raymond asked with a smile under his mask, finding the other man to be a fine warrior and noble both. "Are you ready for some sport?"

"Me and my men are eager, my lord, it's been too long since we had a good tussle." The Chevalier replied, voice rough from a lifetime of roaring battle-cries and orders, yet far more proper than the Bann's none the less. _We really need to enlighten these people once these rebellions are dealt with_... "Although...no, it would be improper of me to say."

"You don't like the idea of charging up that hill with lance in hand? No, I can understand that." Raymond grimaced under his mask as he brought the Fereldian army into focus. "Don't worry, Ser, I'm no fool. This will be done with finesse and attrition, not a glorious charge, I'm afraid...would you believe that Bann refused to come down and fight us honourably?"

"It seems to be the Fereldian way, my lord." Renauld sniffed, disgusted but too polite to say it.

"Quite." Raymond agreed, narrowing his eyes at the Ferelden disposition.

At the front, he could see what seemed to be a full three regiments of crossbowmen in a loose formation, clad in brown scale armour they looked tough for mere commoners. _Freeholders, they call those, no_? _Peasants who own their land_..._what kind of madness is that_? Raymond looked forward to having those killed. Once that was done, the surrounding countryside would be far easier to suppress with all their land being confiscated by the crown.

Just behind the crossbowmen the backbone of Harrold's army stood. Raymond counted six banners of Fereldian soldiery, men and women – _commoner women fighting_..._Maker, I can understand __noble__ women doing it, they have it in their blood, but commoners!?_ – standing shoulder to shoulder in tightly clustered ranks, chainmail a dull grey, heater shields overlapping and swords resting on their rims._ Even on flat ground, such soldiers would be difficult to smash through when engaged on the front, and when on a hill_... Raymond did not like the sight of them.

Further back, two more banners were seen, the tips of many spears glinting in the sunlight. Though that was all that shone from those men and women. _More_ _Freeholders_. Raymond grimaced, the large kite shields and brown scale armour of those Fereldians would make them near impossible to take out with arrows._ So we'll do it in the proper manner, then_. Thankfully, the only mounted men Raymond saw were the Bann and his small retinue of knights, astride their destriers just behind the Freeholders.

Yet around those riders was a patchwork _mass_ of what had to be over four hundred other warriors, and as Raymond focused on them, he nearly choked out a laugh.

"Ser?" Renauld asked, concerned by the odd sound escaping Raymond's mask.

"The Fereldians have armed their _elves_." Raymond's snort was met with a chuckle from Renauld, he too unable to conceal his mirth. Looking more closely, Raymond saw the obviously terrified creatures notch long bows, though otherwise they seemed more servants than soldiers, armoured in simple clothing and carrying nothing but daggers at their belts. _Hmmm_..._that will be a lot of arrows though, add in the crossbows_..._oh I see what you intend to do, Harrold_..._how quaint_. "Remind me to put every elf in this Bannorn to the sword once we're done with this battle, dear Renauld." _Armed elves_..._dangerous_ _precedence_..._these_ _Fereldians_ _truly_ _are_ _fools_.

"Of course, my lord." Renauld's armour creaked as he closed a hand into a fist...the man had lost a daughter to a trusted elven servant, the two running off together, and would probably gladly repay the debt from the elf's promiscuousness to his kin.

Raymond was not pleased by the battlefield either. Not only were the Fereldians lined up on a hill, but on either flank the hill dropped down into steep cliffs, meaning there was only one – all too open – approach to their force. It was wide enough for over a hundred men to fight shoulder to shoulder, but with the Fereldians lined up along it, there was no chance of flanking them.

_If it had been up to me, I would have declined a battle, gone round and burnt his villages and maybe even besieged his castle, forced him to engage in a better position_. Sadly, that was not so, Meghren was quite an impatient man, and if he'd learnt Raymond had _declined_ to engage...suffice to say, Raymond preferred his head to stay on his shoulders.

Done studying the lay of the land and the enemy's ranks, Raymond collapsed his spyglass. "Well, it seems our enemy is disinclined to strike the first blow, he'll hide behind that shield-wall until the the Darkspawn rise once more and we're all dust." He turned to Renauld, smiling under his mask. "So we'll humour him."

"My lord?"

"If I understand my opponent right, he's one of those fools thinking a hill makes a strategy, I intend to prove him otherwise." Raymond turned back to gaze at the Ferelden force. "Summon the militia and crossbowmen, footmen to stay near in case I've misjudged our foe."_ I doubt it though_. "Have the militia charge up the hill, crossbowmen will deploy their pavises once in range and target the _shield-wall_."

"As you command, my lord." Renauld bowed and gestured at a nearby Chevalier, who rode off to give the commands. "What of the rest of your forces?"

Raymond turned his gaze to where Renauld was gesturing. Standing in orderly rows, three regiments of lightly armoured men at arms in brown leather and red coats stood behind a regiment of dismounted Chevaliers and another troop of female nobles dedicated to their patron saint, Aveline. Behind those a squadron of mounted Chevaliers in full plate armour and shining shields were flanked by two squadrons of Sergeants with their polished chainmail, kite shields and long horseman's axes.

_Could have done with more Chevaliers_. Unfortunately, more were not available, the rest off hunting Moria's son, despite the boy no doubt being dead by now. _Which is for the best, can't have Ferelden rally around some icon. They've been conquered, can't they see that_?

"Have them stay down, no need to tire themselves with silly posturing right now." Raymond turned before the order was even called, watching as his first order was carried out.

At the back of Raymond's first thrust, three regiments of commoners with mediocre training but at least armoured in chainmail and carrying armour-crushing halberds marched, ready to support the first probing attack in case the Fereldians tried anything. Ahead of them, three more regiments marched, these being commoners dressed in nothing but white trousers and red tunics, but at least carrying large pavises on their backs and dependable crossbows in their hands...equipment more valuable than the men themselves, in Raymond's opinion.

And at the tip of the attack...four 'regiments' of militia, though Raymond was hesitant to call them as such. Men dragged and whipped out of their homes, they were armed with whatever they had at hand. Kitchen knives, carpenter hammers, staves, scythes, _firewood_...all was present in the over six hundred bedraggled townspeople dressed in whatever they'd manage to clothe themselves in when conscripted.

Ahead, a great cloud suddenly rose from the Fereldians, making Raymond arch an eyebrow. "It seems those elves have a long reach with those bows, my dear Renauld."

"Best to find that out now, rather than later." The Chevalier grunted, obviously not amused with the subjects of Raymond's observation. "Still, once we reach them..." There was a promise in his growl.

"Indeed." Ahead, a dozen militiamen fell to the ground as the arrows rained down among them. _Poor shots though_. "Sound the charge, might as well close the distance." _Always good to use your troops at their best, even if they're expendable_.

Moments later, a horn sounded to boom out his order.

Shoved forward by the nastiest – and therefore the ones made officers – of the militiamen, the blob of men surged forward, across the field leading to the hill ahead.

Only to be met with a wall of crossbow bolts. While slower to reload and with a shorter range, the Freeholder crossbowmen did a far nastier first blow than the elves, though the next volley of the later was already in the air, adding to the chaos. Not armoured or carrying shields, the militiamen were dying in droves to the arrows and crossbows, the later in particularly getting more and more deadly as the distance shrunk. _Good, keep shooting at them_...

Then a horn called out from the Fereldian lines, making Raymond stiffen in worry.

At first, he thought the Fereldians were coming to meet the militia, but then he saw it...not even a hundred _dogs_ running out from between the Ferelden soldiers legs, past the Freeholder crossbowmen and down the hill._ Ah, the Mabari, Ferelden, home of the dog-lords._ Roaring in fear and defiance, the militiamen too spotted their new targets and charged on...and then the two forces crashed into one another.

Ferocious with their teeth and claws, bodies all thick muscle, the Mabari bowled over their first target, then swiftly moved to the next as militiamen desperately hacked and stabbed at their furry foes. Despite outnumbering the dogs six to one, the militiamen were clearly struggling, and had come to a complete stop just at the base of the hill. And as they slowly hacked down the outnumbered dogs, though by now Raymond was unsure who was beating who, the elven archers and crossbows kept loosing their missiles, turning the nearly stationary targets into piles of corpses. _Eh, they're not even __Orlesian__ militia, you keep killing your countrymen, Harrold_. Not that Raymond would have given one whit, had they been Orlesian commoners, but he was sure it was causing some anxiety for his opponent, if the man had the whit to notice the accent of those charging at his men.

By then, the _true_ purpose of that mad charge was in place. Unmolested, the unarmoured crossbowmen that had been so vulnerable during their advance had deployed their pavises and were now sheltering behind the massive shields as they began to loose quarrels at the Ferelden line. While they were armoured in chainmail and carrying shields, the Ferelden soldiers were _very_ tightly packed, and made an excellent target even for _Raymond's_ poor shots. _Hmmm_..._if our Bann is wise, he'll have the men loosen their formation while they're being shot at_.

Nothing happened on the hill though.

_He's not, how surprising_. A smug smile stole its way to Raymond's face.

Even better was, while the hill gave his enemies a good range to their missiles and an excellent defensive position, it also made the quarrels of Raymond's crossbowmen hit every level of foes. So while they _were_ targeting the Ferelden main line, any bolt landing short stood a chance of striking a Freeholder crossbowman, and any bolt that missed their targets could well hit an elf or Freeholder spearman. _Not that we're likely to kill many of the later, scale armour __and__ kite shields_..._it's no plate, but near enough_..._at least until we get close_.

A cry made Raymond look down though, finding his militia routing, though by now they were less than a hundred, still falling over as arrows and crossbow bolts slammed into their back. Behind them, a total of _five_ Mabari hounds still stood that, fearlessly, threw themselves at Raymond's crossbowmen.

A single shower of quarrels from a regiment – killing yet more routing militia, though Raymond wasn't about to protest - was enough to put down the dogs though, leaving the Orlesian crossbows free to rake the Ferelden position. By now the Fereldians were shooting back, loosing a crossbow bolt _and_ two arrows for every quarrel of Raymond's own men, and while it was causing casualties, the pavises were deflecting the worst of it, leaving Raymond's men free to continue whittling away at the Ferelden numbers. _And, just as importantly, their ammunition stores as they shoot back_...

A sigh escaped Raymond as he watched, bored, how one of his crossbowmen writhed on the ground while screaming for his mother, clutching an arrow in his eye-socket. _This will take a while_. "Renauld."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Would you kindly have your men round up those fleeing militiamen and hang them? Desertion is not acceptable." _Also, I'd like to return to Gwaren ahead of the news of what happened to their militia_. "Oh, and inform me if our Fereldians actually decide to _act_." _I doubt it though_."If not, you can come for me once this ridiculous skirmish is over, in whatever way it might end." With that, Raymond dismounted.

Renauld was looking down at him from his destrier, though with his helmet on, it was impossible to see what he was thinking. "And where may I find my lord?" The question was wary.

"In my tent, of course." Raymond replied. "I have a letter to write, not to mention peckish, a light supper ought to go down."_ Plus, I could do with sating another hunger_...

Behind him, his elf followed

Renauld chuckled. "Of course, my lord, as you command."

8

8

8

The knock was soft, nearly lost in the din of combat.

Having expected it though, given how the moans and cries of agony had diminished the last few minutes, Raymond already had his mask back on as he looked up from his desk. "Enter."

His tent was small by proper standards – only the size of a barn – though then again, Raymond was quite a spartan man in tastes. He had his wide feathered bed, his mahogany desk and furniture enough for a proper living room as well as a tub...what else could a man need when on campaign? The walls of the tent were largely hidden by wooden panels covered with various carvings depicting hunting scenes, but even the panels could not keep out the light and sound from outside unless Raymond was in bed and pulled the wooden curtains there shut. All in all most nobles would have sneered at the lack of finery, but Raymond thought it just right.

By the door, two elven boys dressed in red and white moved to open the tent – its flaps replaced by an actual wooden door – and admitted Renauld. "My lord, the skirmish is at an end."

"Ah, finally." Putting down the quill he'd held in his hands, his letter to his brother only half-finished, Raymond closed the silk robe he now wore – he'd discarded his armour the moment he entered his tent – before rising to his feet. "A good result, I trust?"

Renauld hesitated, head turning to look at Raymond's bed where his elf was still lying under the covers, wearing nothing but a smile. _She always smiles when she's asleep, strange creatures, those elves, and always so soft to the touch_... The Chevalier turned his gaze back to Raymond though, nodding. "I believe my lord will be pleased."

"Well then..." Picking up his spyglass from the table, Raymond stalked across the floor towards Renauld. "...let's see then." Outside, the sun had moved, to their right, making every man and woman on the field cast a long shadow as the heat from the sun continued to bake them in their armour._ It's quite nice when wearing a robe though_. Raymond smiled, finding himself faced with ten men in sweat-stained red tunics standing in a line, one of them grimacing as he hugged one of his arm with an arrow stuck in it. "And who are these people?"

"The survivors." Renauld grimly grunted.

Raymond's smile faded. "That is _not_ pleasing..." He turned his gaze to the hill ahead, his crossbowmen forgotten as he brought his spyglass to his eye...and found his smile returning. "...but _that_ is."

Beyond the Orlesian camp, many pavises still stood, some splintered or knocked over from the amount of arrows they'd absorbed, some looking more like hedgehogs than shields. Among them, red-clothed bodies lay strewn about, most of those that had fought the Fereldians in the missile duel having been slain. _Yet those ten still stayed on the field_..._huh_..._I ought to execute expendable troops more often_. And the ground itself was virtually _covered_ with shafts from arrows and crossbows alike.

"Have the defenders run out of ammunition?" In the light of what Raymond saw, the question seemed almost silly.

Further up the slope, the Ferelden crossbowmen seemed somewhat ragged, their numbers slightly diminished, and those remaining looking tired._ No doubt their arms are aching from all that reloading, good, then their swords will be even heavier_. "They have, my lord."

Further up, the _real_ damage was clearly visible. Stationary, clumped up in a thick wall of men and women, the Ferelden soldiers had lost a good third of their numbers, if Raymond was any judge. None of the troops had moved either, the individual regiments spreading their soldiers as well as they could to keep the battle-line intact, making it _thin_.

_And where is it thinnest._.._ah_..._there_. Raymond lowered his spyglass, pleased. Grinning under his mask, he barely heard Renauld's question. "Shall I have my men lead the charge? We can probably punch through now."

A_nd then run right into their spearmen_..._however armoured you are, some will be lost, and that's a waste_. "Not quite yet, my captain, I'm inclined to wait for a more opportune moment for our cavalry. No, time for our infantry to show its teeth."

Renauld disapproved, Raymond could feel it, yet the man wisely held his tongue. _Chevaliers, always so eager to prove their mettle, even when it's not needed_.

"Have our beautiful knights of Aveline lead the charge up the right flank, with the dismounted Chevaliers pushing on just behind." Raymond frowned. "Oh, and a regiment of footmen in support of those two." _Just in case Harrold and his little bodyguard decides to charge in with their horses_. "At the same time we'll draw up our three regiments of men at arms at the foot of the hill on the left and centre, with the footmen behind." Raymond didn't trust the later with anything but a supporting role. He'd had bad experiences with them at the Nevarran border, well-equipped for commoners, they were still skittish like a poorly trained horse, and if one fled the others usually followed. _At least the men at arms have been beaten into better shape by their masters at arms_...

"My lord, the knights of Aveline-"

"Will do just fine." Raymond replied, voice properly terse, brokering no argument. He knew many Chevaliers still resented women joining their ranks, even with the natural separation occurring between them; but Raymond prided himself in being an educated man, and noble women came from the blood of warriors and knights through _generations_, making them hardy stock if they choose to groom that quality. In fact, Raymond had seen one of those warriors spar with a Chevalier a few days ago. Though the more experienced Chevalier might have been just a tad more skilled, it had been the _woman_ who'd come out victorious after a long bout thanks to speed and the choice of taking her foe on with a long greatsword. Raymond had a feeling that a whole _troop_ of similarly armed women would punch through Ferelden soldiers armed like the Chevaliers but without similarly good armour and skill...

"As you say, my lord."

"Indeed, as I say." Raymond easily took out the bite of his words though, tone reassuring as he feigned ignorance of Renauld's issue with the choice of vanguard. "Don't worry though, you and your men will be leading the mounted contingent soon enough, you'll just have to wait for my signal...have the men made ready."

"Yes, my lord." Even as Renauld offered the stiff courtesy, servants carrying Raymond's orders were riding to and fro, informing minor officers of their tasks as well as they possibly could. Considering failure to do so would lead to losing your tongue, Raymond was not surprised...though he was fair, unlike other generals, he would not cut out a messenger's tongue to shift the blame from himself, should he fail. _Not that that will happen against oafs like that, the Nevarra might have proven skilled at war, but these peasants_..._not in the least_.

Marching from their camp, the knights of Aveline in their silver-coloured chainmail and pieces of strategically placed plates were beautiful. Many had chosen to fight with their heads bare – an impractical, but inspiring, decision taken by many a noblewoman with much skill but little experience – while others sported open-faced helmets glittering of silver and gold, particularly on the sides where many had fasted wings to make themselves seem all the more impressive. As they marched, the women's greatswords rested against their shoulders, shining like a hedge of crystals as they reflected the light of the sun.

Behind them, the Chevaliers in their plate armour almost looked _dull_ in comparison, though their armour and swords had been polished until they were as good as any mirror, their shields bearing the heraldry of their houses, their fully-enclosing armet helmets topped by plumes of red and white. These more heavily armoured warriors moved with less of a spring in their steps than those preceding them, their walk measured but confident, the prowling of tigers approaching their prey.

Behind them, a regiment of footmen formed up, their chainmail a dull grey, the tabards over their armour squares of red and white to show their obedience to their Emperor, their halberds all cruel curves and points as they rose high over the Orlesian army, promising a brutal end to anyone struck.

While the heavily laden right wing of the Orlesian army thrust forth like a cavalry charge – slow at first, but picking up speed – the three regiments of men at arms were running forward at the centre and on the left. Though dull in their brown leather armour, they still sported red cloth under it, and their shields were as white as the Divine's purity as they held a mix of axes and simpler swords in their other hand. Though decently skilled, one on one they would probably lose to a Ferelden soldier...though Raymond had no intention to test that theory, those men were – unlike the militia – _not_ expendable. The two regiments of footmen behind though...Raymond was not too bothered by any one of them that might be lost in the fighting. _Bloody footmen lost me my battle __and__ my lands back in Orlais, if only they'd held_..._ah well, I'll make do with my new Ferelden lands_.

Rearranging his robe, Raymond moved to sit...and instantly found a chair propped under him as an elven servant swiftly obeyed. _Ah, if only these Ferelden elves could be as well-trained_..._these Fereldians have turned them into animals, no class_... Through his spyglass, Raymond noted with a pleased smile how the Ferelden elves just stood there, looking nervous, quivers empty...and soon joined by the Freeholder crossbowmen that retreated beyond the shield-wall, they too lacking ammunition to hurl at their approaching doom._ Now what will you do, Harrold_?

Precious little was the answer. The Ferelden army held still as the Orlesian wing steadily advanced to, and then up, the hill, unassailed by anything but taunts and jeers thrown by the Ferelden battle-line.

At the back, champing at the bit, Renauld was leading his Chevaliers, ably followed by the two squadrons of sergeants, into a thick wall of horsemen a few feet behind those footmen left at the base of the hill.

For just a moment, Raymond found himself holding his breath.

Then his knights of Aveline cried out, shrill voices carrying high, their advance turning into a charge at the far right flank. Behind them, the roar of the Chevaliers were duller, a boom from within their helmets as they too charged up, moving a little to the left as they did so to widen the front and allow them to at least get a few men into the fighting.

The charge lacking in power due to the hill, and was aimed at a wall of shields _designed_ to throw back the fiercest of attacks. Yet the Fereldian line was thin through losses now, and only a few at the far end were engaged, the soldiers behind those shields no doubt aware of their predicament, scared.

Red, white and silver charged up the hill, meeting brown, grey and more brown.

The Ferelden line balked, inched backwards...and then _held_.

_What_!? Raymond nearly shot out of his seat before he remembered who he was. _I'm the commander, a noble, I am always in control_. It would do no good if his small personal guard or servants saw him worry, mask or not, they knew to read body-language by now. Instead, Raymond brought his spyglass up again, watching the action.

His smile returned, relief filling him. Through the spyglass he saw but a few Ferelden soldiers be hacked down...but there were none to replace them, and as the knights of Aveline surged forth, the shield-wall broke. And when the shield-wall broke, _more_ Ferelden soldiers began to fall, unable to match a knight in combat without the cover offered by their friends.

_Surely, you must act now_. Raymond turned his spyglass to focus on Harrold, curious as he watched the man point his sword about like a barbarian would, barking orders. _Ah, sending in the Freeholder spears_? _Good call_..._and_ _their_ _crossbowmen_? _I suppose you want to add extra numbers_? Raymond nodded to himself. It was a worrying sight, seeing so many Fereldians swarm over his knights, outnumbering them with a wide margin and coming from above. Yet the Chevaliers and their female counterparts were not the finest warriors in arguably all of Thedas for nothing, and weren't giving any ground, in fact, they would likely win the melee if it was allowed to progress for an hour or two.

_Now, maybe you ought to have the other regiments advance to meet my men at the hill and swing your small cavalry round to flank my men_?_ Of course I'll answer with my footmen who'll._.._hold_ _on_...? As Raymond watched, _four_ of the remaining five regiments in the dense shield-wall formation _turned_...and began to march towards the Orlesian thrust, swords beating against their shields.

_He can't be serious_. Raymond actually found himself snorting as he watched the last regiment of Ferelden soldiers spread out, making a line of _single_ soldiers spanning the area the others left to deal with the Orlesian incursion._ Probably enough to deal with my knights, yes, but now you're assuming I'll act like you, doing a lot of nothing_. "Renauld, have your knights lead the charge, punch through the enemy line and into the forces behind, sergeants to swing round and hammer their infantry, men at arms and footmen will follow in close support as individual captains deem best." _That's what happens when you wage your battles from a hill, you don't learn the proper art of war_..._a_ _pity_.

Without a word, the young messenger on his knees that Raymond hadn't even deigned to take note off, rose, his face a pasty white as he ran for his horse.

In contrast, behind his mask, Raymond was grinning.

Soon enough, the squadron of Chevaliers, steel-tipped lances glittering in the sunlight, began to canter forth, the two squadrons of sergeants at their heel as the regiments of men at arms and footmen parted to let the cavalry forth.

By then, the Ferelden soldiers detached from their line had reached the Orlesian knights. While the shield-wall was by no means an offensive formation, the sudden addition of hundreds of soldiers far more skilled than the Freeholders was more than a concern for the knights. Not to mention that the sheer _mass_ of enemies pressing into the Orlesian troops was pushing them back...and towards the sheer cliffs that had guarded the Fereldians' flank.

Even disciplined and brave as they were, Raymond knew it was only a matter of time before panic would settle in among his finest foot-soldiers. "Right wing footmen to advance in support of Chevaliers." _Won't make much difference against the shield-walls, but it's better than nothing_.

Even as the next messenger rode on, Raymond watched his Chevaliers kick their destriers into a charge, hooves kicking up mounds of mud as with ease they climbed the hill. The incline was robbing the knights of much of their impetuousness, even more so than for the infantry, yet the charge of the knights fabled for their skill at arms could not be so easily denied. With a crash, their lances came down just in time to find their targets.

Lances splintered, shields split, men died. Some Fereldians were even hoisted into the air as they were caught by lances, like meat on a knife. Others were gored to the ground like a hog by merciless lances or crushed under the mass of a heavily armoured horse. Those slightly more fortunate were simply knocked aside...and if they were _really_ lucky, _not_ crushed under a stream of hooves as the Chevaliers, and then the sergeants, punched through the Ferelden line as if it wasn't even there, what few remained of the shield-wall instantly turning heel and running back up the hill.

_Beautiful, just beautiful_... Raymond nearly felt like applauding as he watched Renauld lead his knights on, lances discarded in favour of swords as they climbed the hill. Behind them, the sergeants were wheeling their mounts ninety degrees to the right and thundering into the rear of the Ferelden soldiers, the shield-wall useless from that angle as the horseman's axes began to reap a red harvest, the long weapons perfect for cutting down the poor foot-soldiers.

Two regiments of Fereldians were turning to face the horsemen, to push them back, but the damage had already been done, and their numbers were so depleted that their shield-wall broke the moment Raymond's three regiments of fresh men at arms crashed into them. _It's over_.

The elves were fleeing, not even engaged in combat, and what had to be five hundred filthy little Alienage people were already running for their lives. _That's what you get when you hire knife-ears as warriors. At least Dalish, however savage, have some spine_. Renauld was not about to allow the retreat though – Raymond noted – the man no doubt remembering the loss of his daughter to an elven servant as he lead his knights into a brutal pursuit.

Barded horses smashed knife-ears down with nary an effort, crushing them under their hooves while swords rose and fell as a mere sixty knights began to cut down every elf on the field with ease, turning the top of the hill crimson with blood.

Silly enough, Bann Harrold seemed intent to _save_ his deserters, the man leading his small contingent of knights towards the busy Chevaliers as if he could actually _beat_ them with his few men...yet the press of routing elves was in the way, slowing him...and then the two regiments of footmen that had followed the Chevaliers caught up with him and his knights. Three hundred men rushing a mere thirty.

Through his spyglass, Raymond watched Harrold pull back a sword red with blood...and then cry out as a halberd smashed through armour and flesh, cutting off his left leg at the knee. The Bann swayed in his saddle, tried to swing down at the offending footman...and another stabbed a halberd through a gap in his armour and into his right armpit. Harrold's sword fell...and then a third halberd struck, the curved blade at its back hooking into Harrold's neck and pulling him off his saddle and into a mass of footmen.

_Well, that's that then._ Raymond collapsed his spyglass. Even without it, he could see his men at arms pushing into the rear of the Fereldian main infantry body, darting in and out as they killed their few and all too pressed foes at leisure. The knights, bolstered by a regiment of footmen, were jostling for some space to fight in, slaughtering Freeholders as they began to push for the tip of the hill. And as Ferelden resistance crumpled, the mounted sergeants began to turn their axes upon those fleeing, ensuring the survivors would be few and far between.

Yawning, Raymond rose to his feet, gaze turning to the now slowly setting sun. _Oh darn, it'll probably get cold soon_..._well_, _better_ _get_ _inside_. "Renauld will handle the post-battle details, but do remind him to put Harrold's head on a pike for Meghren." Stretching, then pulling his robe tighter around him, Raymond turned and moved towards his tent, mind already on the future.

_I should burn the villages first, whatever farmers survives ought to flee to the castle, if the Bann's wife is as much a fool as him, she'll let them in so they can eat up her stores_..._that ought to make for a swift siege_.

"I think I'll have some tea. Oh, and piece of cake, fighting gives me such a ferocious appetite..."

8

8

8

_Thanks to Abydos Jackson for not strangling me._


End file.
